We are the rust upon gears
by ammcj062
Summary: AU. Stanley never went after Zero or broke the curse; instead, he serves out his 18-month sentence. This is his return home.


**A/N**: Title is from the song Re-Education (Through Labor) by Rise Against. I figured it was appropriate.

Summary: Stanley never went after Zero and the curse was never broken. Instead, Stanley serves out his 18-month sentence. This is his return home. AU.

* * *

My hands shake as the dust around the run-down school bus settles. It's here, it's finally here, I'm finally done, I'm finally _free._ Mr. Sir grunts something that might be goodbye, spits out a few sunflower seeds, and stalks away towards the water truck. The engine sputters on dirt and sand as it lumbers out. I watch as it bumps over the dry lakebed, and it's so easy to imagine myself out there with everybody else, digging another hole, eyeing the red truck as I hoard the last drops in my canteen.

The bus doors creak open and I lick my dry lips, slowly inching forwards. Maybe this is just a dream, and I'll wake up to Mr. Sir's bellowing in a few minutes. Maybe I've fainted out on the lakebed and Twitch is slapping my face right now, trying to wake me up. Maybe I've finally cracked under the head and it's all a hallucination. The guard pokes his head out. "Stanley Yelnats?" The name sounds annoyingly nasally.

Automatically, I correct him. "It's Caveman." He glares, but from the hint of exasperation he's used to the routine.

"Not anymore it isn't. You're back to the real world, _Stanley. _Now get in, you're wasting daylight." He sounds like Pendanski. _The names society will recognize you by._

I shrug my left shoulder, and the guard backs out of the doorway. As he takes his seat, I slowly stomp up the stairs. The bus still doesn't disappear, so no hallucination. I shuffle down the row and pick a seat halfway back, flinging my almost-empty backpack in first. Funny, I remember the seats being more uncomfortable. And did it have air-conditioning before? It's silly – out of the direct heat of the sun, it's almost cool.

The driver shuts the door and steps on the pedal, steering the bus into a jerky U-turn. In the distance, I can see the tell-tale orange jumpsuits of the other boys and the occasional puff of dust floating up between them. Is it just my imagination, or do they pause as I drive by?

I can remember how it feels, digging out there as you see the decrepit school bus rumble away with some lucky survivor. Of the original D-Tent, I was the last, Now Twitch is the old man of the Tent. Poor bastard. The twinge of pity dissipates with the ease of long practice. Camp Green Lake is - _was_ a place that bakes your emotions as dry as the craggy lakebed around it.

I know they're all staring at the bus, muttering half-hearted curses and wishing it would be _them _who was getting out. But as the saying goes, out of sight out of mind. Soon they'll buckle down into the monotony of life at Camp Green Lake, and I'll be only a passing reference for when they're feeling desperate and need something to cheer themselves up. _Hey, man, _they'll say to each other. _What do you think Caveman is doing right now?_ And they'll all groan and talk about how much of a bastard I am for leaving and my replacement will feel awkward and say nothing. That's how it always goes. And then someone else will leave – that kid from C-Tent who started before me for a drug rap – and they'll pretend to forget about me entirely, except maybe the poor shit who is going to take my place. I still remember Barfbag.

The bus's AC is on full-strength. I can hear the fan in front whirring, working overtime to keep the bus cool. The driver's shirt is soaked through with sweat, and the guard's face glows with a faint sheen of it. Personally, I think it's rather cold. I shift into the sun, trying to soak up the warmth as goosebumps crawl down my arms. I want to say something, but I know it won't matter. So I just tuck my hands in my armpits and fight off the shiver. Armpit. He was a nice kid; I'll miss him now, even though our times only overlapped by a couple of months.

As the minutes pass, I reflect that riding on a bus is almost like digging a hole. You have to let your mind wander, or else time slows and you end up reliving the same moment over and over and over again until you go crazy. Except instead of dig, dig, dig it's bump, bump, bump. I think I prefer digging. I haven't been in a vehicle since the time I stole Mr. Sir's sunflower seeds and it's giving me a headache.

Time passes.

Maybe I'll meet some of the guys out there. Pass by them on the street, one of the members of a tough gang I used to duck around on my way home from school. God, I was such a looser. But now I won't duck. I don't need to. I'll meet the eyes of the guy in charge - Squid, it would be Squid who has his own gang even though X-Ray's got better charisma and we'll nod to each other, a passing of survivors. And then we'll walk different ways and never see each other again. He'll probably end up back in jail a day later.

And Zig-Zag's got himself in an insane asylum by now. For all he bitched (about everything) he liked the rhythm and simplicity of Green Lake. Each day was like another; it blended together so he could relive that same damn week over and over, watching all his favorite shows on a TV everybody else only saw static. (It was February, his week. Some time in February.)

Magnet – Magnet is one of those guys who's got his own theft ring by now. He's definitely moved away, living the life of a successful teenage booster. Probably in Miami or somewhere with a lot of girls, the kind he bragged about dating to the other guys. (God, _girls._) He was only at Camp Green Lake by mistake and he's too smart to make that same mistake again. Instead he'll hang around on the sunny beaches of Miami and in hotel pools with hundreds of beautiful women in bikinis around him. I heard he tried to sneak a shovel home, though. Maybe he was successful – we all lost orange juice privileges for a month to pay for new equipment.

X-Ray would be on his way to becoming a politician. He has that effortless charm and overbearing friendliness that would take him far. Or maybe he'd work for some celebrity as their PR person. Go on TV with that smooth smile and talk away all his clients' shortcomings. Yeah, he'll do something like that. Rub elbows with the rich and famous, and make money doing it. Perhaps one day he'll be a celebrity himself. He always wanted to be successful.

One day I'd see him on the tv or in a magazine or walking down the street and I'd stop him, still dressed in my Camp Green Lake jumpsuit. And he'd turn in his million-dollar outfit and I'd know it was still him because his glasses would be covered in dirt, even though the rest of him was perfectly clean and manicured. And he'd remember me (because he remembers everyone) and smile that soothing smile that made everyone believe he was their best friend. _Hey, Caveman, my man!_ He'd say.

I don't know what Armpit would do. I never got a chance to know him; too busy with survival to worry about friendships yet, and then he'd already left. Probably on this same bus. Probably thinking the same things. I didn't even know what he was in for. Of course, I didn't know about half the other boys either. It was a privilege of those already there to know what the newbies had done – not the other way around. The only way you found out what the other guys did was them bragging or an one of those rare stories about Time Before Camp Green Lake. But Armpit, for all his size and gruffness, had seemed a bit out of place; too kind for a jerk and too sane for a crazy. He seemed kind of like me – there by accident and misfortune.

It takes me a minute to realize when the road changes. After more than a year of dirt, it's strange to think something like cement exists. Dirt is perfectly acceptable, after all. But we're not on dirt, we're on a poorly paved road that's more dirt than cement but it's still _cement, _an eerie otherworldly gray that seems to float to the horizon.

As we drive farther and farther, the cement looses the potholes until it's just a never-ending gray expanse in front of the bus, cutting through the desert, conquering it. It still looks rather surreal.

The hours crawl by. I haven't been this inactive in forever. My hands jiggle convulsively, rapping against the plastic material of the seat, my feet wriggle in my boots, my jaw twitches, my entire body shivers with the cold and repressed energy. I consciously try to still myself, but inevitably my attention wanders and everything starts moving again. _Now I know how Twitch feels, _I reflect, and smile. The guard looks back and grunts, "What's so funny?"

I know he's trying to look intimidating – eyebrows scrunched together, frown creasing the corners of his lips, shoulders leaning forward. It doesn't work. I just shrug my shoulder and look out the window. The guard grumbles and settles down. He'll never be as scary as the Warden, or as Mr. Sir with those poisoned fingernail scratches down his face that swelled and turned it purple.

We're now approaching civilization.

I study the buildings as they whiz past. They're isolated at first, huge stretches of land between them, but as we get further and further in they get closer and closer. And when did they get so _tall?_ Even the buildings with only two levels tower above me. I think back to the Warden's cabin and the Wreck Room and the squat, packed tents. Everything hugged the ground. A single house out here could probably swallow all of them whole. I watch the slow transformation from rural to suburban to urban, until the bus slows down to a crawl and stops moving all together.

"We're here," the driver grunts, and the guard gratefully stands up to stretch tight limbs with a loud groan. The doors open; I don't move. The twitching finally stops. _We're here. _Where is here? I stare at the doors of the bus, fear creeping into my belly. I step out there, then what? Where do I go? The buildings tower overhead, alien. Or am I an alien in their strange world? I used to live here. I used to belong. But now what?

"Stanley?" The voice is female, quivering with emotion. It's coming from outside the bus. From out _there. _My jaw twitches. _It's Caveman. _Not anymore.

"Stanley?" The voice is louder. I think it might be hopeful, sad too. It's strange; the only emotions at Camp Green Lake were _leave me alone _and anger and _bullshit _and day-to-day idleness tempered with a fatalistic humor. Everything else was hugged close to the chest until it hardened underneath the shell of lake dirt and callus.

The guard is looking at me strange, exasperated. He jerks his head to the front of the bus, to the doors, and his almost intimidating face is back. The meaning is clear. _Get off the damn bus._

I gather my stuff together and shuffle up the row, clomp down the stairs. Off to the side are two adults; a man and a woman. The woman has her hand over her mouth, tears seeping out the corners of her eyes. _Mom. Dad._ I feel stupid. Of course they would be here.

They look like the picture I have of them, if just a little older with just a few more wrinkles. I hadn't expected them to be here. I hadn't even _thought_ about what happened after the bus. Just that I would get on the bus and get away from Camp Green Lake and then some time later be doing whatever I had fantasized on those days that me and D-Tent had sat back and said _man, what do you think he's doing right now?_

"Stanley?" My mom asks again.

I shrug my shoulder. _It's Caveman._ I know I should say something, but there's an uncomfortable lump in my throat blocking it. I open my mouth, close it, open it again. Mom lets out a great giant sob and runs towards me, flinging her arms around me. I stiffen at the unexpected contact, but she just sobs harder and holds me tighter. "Oh, _Stanley!_" And then my dad's there too, and they're both hugging me and crying.

It's very uncomfortable. I try to slip away from them, regain my personal space, but they just cling tighter and sob more. So I stand there, waiting for them to stop.

"We're so glad you're _home!"_

"It's been so long –"

"Why on _Earth_ did you stop writing? We wrote every month but you never responded and -"  
"We love you so much –"

"So glad you're safe again –"

They bustle me into the car, and it's a relief that they have to let go. But mom sits sideways, her eyes never leaving me, and dad constantly glances in the back mirror. They try to draw me into conversation, but I just shrug in response. Nobody talked this much in Camp Green Lake. Nobody touched this much at Camp Green Lake. Nobody hovered and got into your space like this.

"Stanley, honey, why didn't you _write?_" Mom asks again.

I try my best to look guilty, which isn't very hard. Parents are supposed to hover. "Sorry," I mutter. Honestly, I'd mean to. But I couldn't pick up a pen after – and then there just never seemed to be any time. (I never had the energy to make up everything that was happening at Camp Green Lake With A Lake).

They moved, when I was gone. Evicted, really, but my parents are very good at re-wording the truth. They moved while I was away at camp – not evicted while I was in a juvenile detention facility. Grandpa's in a retirement home, which was why their new place is so bad. I remember him as grumpy, old, and smelling like leather and cigars. Always telling stories of this Stanley and that Stanley and my no-good-dirty-rotten-pig-stealing-great-great-grandfather. I liked him.

I don't remember my old house, except the Clive Livingston poster I had on my bedroom wall. We had just moved a couple months before I got arrested. It was even signed by him. The police took it away as evidence. Grandpa had stood in the room and harassed the officers. I feel like I should remember more – it was only a year and a half ago. But Camp Green Lake has taken up the majority of my life. There's a yawning chasm between now and the time before Camp.

The new neighbors stare at my dusty orange jumpsuit. I shuffle into the apartment, dumping my stuff on the couch. Mom is apologetic. "We thought it was only going to be temporary, honey, that's why we didn't get a place with another room. But we're already looking for a new apartment that's in our price range."

The house smells like old shoes. Or like a canvas tent in the middle of the desert that seven smelly boys live in. It's as cold as the bus, and the lights are too dim. I miss the warmth and brightness of Camp Green Lake. Mom asks me a question and looks at me enquiringly; I wasn't listening, so I just shrug one shoulder.

Mom bustles over to the small kitchen area. Dad brings out all of my old clothes and tells me to try them on, then grabs my backpack and begins rummaging through it. For a second, I have the urge to punch him. You _never _go through another person's possessions. If you did – well, some of those tent doors can slam into your face pretty hard.

He looks up and frowns right back at me. Condemning me for having only an old yellowing toothbrush and a pair of clothes I hadn't bothered changing into. He doesn't notice the second zipper on the side, where I keep their letters and one sheet of paper that says ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO ZERO over and over in wobbly amateur handwriting.

I set my jaw and go to try on my old clothes to get away from his disapproval. Some of the guys had even less than me when they left. I heard Zig-Zag stole Mr. Sir's lighter to set the clothes he came in with on fire. He nearly burned D-Tent down, and Mr. Sir started eating sunflower seeds. Zig-Zag never confirmed the story, but he didn't have any clothes in his box either, and the only thing he left with was that raggedy old TV guide.

I look at the clothes they saved – striped and solid t-shirts, jean shorts and collard shirts. I used to wear these. I used to go to school in these. I used to feel comfortable putting these on.

I wish I had Mr. Sir's lighter.

I come back out, dump the clothes, reclaim my stuff, and wait until my parents look away (finally) to quickly shove the bag under the couch.

Dad sits down on the chair across from me. "So, Stanley…" He's awkward and doesn't know what to say, but he tries anyway. They're still trying to get me to talk, though the efforts are half-hearted now. What do you say to a delinquent who has been isolated from society for over a year? I'm impressed at their perseverance even as the one-sided conversation lulls yet again. Dad clears his throat and Mom shifts her weight in the kitchen. Maybe I should have been paying attention.

"Stanley, dear," Mom finally says. "Why don't you go shower? There's towels in the bathroom, and you can borrow your father's clothes until we can get you some that fit. Teenage boys change so much at your age." She's nearly sobbing again. "The bathroom's that way, dear."

We're all glad for me to get away. I shuffle into the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and leave them close by. I'd rather wear my jumpsuit than my dad's striped and solid t-shirts, jean shorts, or collard shirts.

I shiver in the shower for fifteen minutes before realizing that it won't turn off automatically. My fingers are pruned and I reach out to turn the shower off, pausing for a moment to remember _how. _(It's a week before I remember I should use shampoo and soap, and another three days before I remember I can change the temperature, too.)

I reach for the first towel I've seen since going to Camp Green Lake and dry off. It feels weird. In Camp Green Lake, you dried off the moment you stepped out of the shower. I slip on my jumpsuit, taking a little comfort in that small piece of familiarity. Something moves in the corner of my eye, and I whirl in shock, coming face-to-face with myself.

Stupid. It's a mirror. Another thing I haven't seen since going to Camp Green Lake. I examine my reflection with curiosity. The last time I looked at myself in the mirror, I was chubby and pudgy-faced and weak. I don't look like that anymore. My skin is weathered and tan, eyes partially narrowed in the entirely too dim light. I'm not chubby anymore, and my face has lost any hint of pudge. I pull down the top of my jumpsuit and can see muscles in my arms. I didn't have muscles before. I had flab.

My nose is bare inches from my other nose. I look myself in the eyes, look at my cheeks, look at my forehead. I frown fiercely, watching the skin shift and contort. I prod at my cheeks, stick out my tongue. I lean closer, until my nose collides with glass. I stare myself in the eyes. _This is who you are._ People talk about eyes being windows to the soul. I look deep into my eyes. They're brown. Like dirt five feet under. I step away from the mirror, give myself a one-shouldered shrug, leave the smudge my nose made on the mirror, and exit the bathroom.

Mom glances up from the stove and gives a weak watery smile. I hope she won't start crying again. "Stanley, honey, I was just going to get you." _It's Caveman. _"Why don't you sit down? Dinner's in a few minutes."I shrug and move over to the chair she waved at. Other than the very thin seat cushion, it's not that different from the benches at Camp Green Lake.

Dad's at the table, too, reading some sort of science magazine. He pauses to look up and give me a full-watt smile. I smile back. Dad looks slightly put out, and returns to his reading. I used to read those magazines, too. And then Dad and I would talk about what was in them.

Dinner passes in silence. It's slightly unnerving without the clattering of cheap utensils on aluminum food trays and the conversations of 34 other exhausted boys. I shovel food into my mouth with only an idle thought that it tastes better than the mysterious bean substances they served at Camp Green Lake. And was in much more abundance.

I wish D-Tent was here.

I finish before everyone else despite having a larger serving, and try to ignore Mom as she stares at me with teary eyes. I clear my throat, and speak through the lump that hasn't gone away since it formed on the bus. "Are you alright?" My voice is hoarse from nine hours of silence, and a year and a half of being near-mute before that.

Apparently it's the wrong thing to say.

Mom bursts into hysterical tears. "I'm just so happy you're finally _home!_" She reaches out and grabs one of my hands with both of hers, smiling.

If she's so happy then why is she crying? I look at my dad, only to see he's almost crying as well. Better not say anything to send _him _over the edge too. Instead, I pat my mom's hand. I think I saw someone doing it on TV, a long time ago. It's supposed to be comforting, right?.

Apparently it works, because mom's tears dry to the occasional sniffle. She gives me another smile. "So, Stanley," _It's Caveman, _"I know it's been over a year since you've been to school, but I – _we_ thought it would be best you didn't miss any more than you had to. I talked to some people, and they agreed that it would be best for you to start right away, get the transition with over as quickly as possible. So the day after tomorrow, you'll be back in school!"

I blinked. I stared. I failed to comprehend.

"Isn't that exciting, honey? Back to school again with all your friends?"

School. I'd nearly forgotten it existed. And then it hit me. A school has _girls. _Girls that are my age. I blinked again. The Holy Grail of Camp Green Lake. I stared some more. Mom's smile shrank, and she pats my hand in the same manner that I had done a few minutes ago.

"I know it's a big step coming home, honey, but I'm sure you'll fit in just fine. It'll just take a while to get back in the swing of things."

I look down at my plate. "First hole's the hardest." I mutter. And so is the second. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth… That's what X-Ray had said to me. What we'd said to all the new boys.

Mom's smile shrinks a little more. "I'm sure it is, Stanley." She doesn't understand. It's always the present that's the hardest.

My hand twitches. "It's Caveman."

"What?" Mom looks a little lost, but I jut my chin out and met her eyes evenly. I hadn't meant for it to come out, but it was too late to back down now. Backing down just made the other boys brave enough to come closer.

"My name isn't Stanley. It's Caveman."

The smile is definitely gone now.

"Stanley…" my dad begins.

I stand up, shoving the chair backwards, and glare at them. I try for anger, but it's hollow and empty. Filled with holes. "It's _Caveman. _Only Mr. Pendanski calls me Stanley." Stanley was a pudgy friendless nerd who couldn't stand up to himself. I'm not him anymore. I can't wear striped polo shirts and jean shorts. I can't sit around with my parents and chat about meaningless things and be a loser.

Mom covers her mouth with a hand and looks like she is going to cry again. My stomach is churning. "Don't cry," I snap.

"Now look here, Stanley," my dad begins furiously. "I don't care what nickname you went by when you were in – away. We will call you Stanley and you will respect your mother!"

I match his glare. My anger is real now. He can't say in jail. He can't admit I was at Camp Green Lake. He can't accept Caveman.

My dad sighs. "Look, I know it'll be hard adjusting to life again. All the books we read said the same thing. You need time and space. But we won't start calling you by silly nicknames."

"Books?" I ask incredulously. "Books about what? Survival at Camp Green Lake?" My parents wince at the name of the Camp. I snort. "Yeah, I forgot to pick that one up before I left." My hands curl into fists, but I squash the urge to hit somebody. Dad's right. This isn't Camp Green Lake. There aren't any tent doors to slam in people's faces. But I have to get out of here. I head for the door, but my dad reaches out and grabs my shoulders.

"You can't go out wearing _that!_" He looks scandalized, and I look down at my clothes. I'm wearing one of the orange jumpsuits and white undershirts that I've been wearing for the last year and a half. They had only let me keep one pair. "Why not?"

"Well, you look – you look like you just –"

A cold wave of understanding washes over me. "I look like I just got out of juvvie," I finish.

Dad looks ashamed, but juts his chin out stubbornly to match mine. "Yes. That's exactly what you look like."

I finger the rough canvas-like material of my jumpsuit. The urge to punch something has left, along with the real anger again. They don't want people to know their kid is a delinquent. They're ashamed. My throat aches.

They forgot that I'm innocent.

Everything seems suffocating in this closed room. I want to be back on the Lake, dirt under my feet and sun above my head. I want a shovel in my hands and a canteen sloshing against my hip. I want a canvas tent and an infinite amount of desert outside of it. I want to go back. Back where it doesn't matter what people were, but only what they did. Where it didn't matter what you said yesterday, because they were all just trying to survive and they needed you as much as you needed them.

Dad's still staring at me. Guilt is clear on his face. _They didn't want you to know…_ I jerk my shoulders out of his grasp, hurry for the door, and shut it in their faces before they can utter anything other than a cut off "Stanley –" _That's exactly what you look like. _That's exactly what I am now. I'm not Stanley any more. I run for the stairs, because it's so cold in here I think I might start shivering.


End file.
